


And the truth is

by kilala2tail



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, One Shot, POV Third Person Limited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 16:58:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13252599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kilala2tail/pseuds/kilala2tail
Summary: She had tried, so many times, to change the outcome they were heading towards. But he had been running for so long, she wasn't sure where she had lost sight of him along the way.





	And the truth is

If she was being honest, with herself and with others, it had been a long time coming. She had tried, so many times, to change the outcome they were heading towards. But he had been running for so long, she wasn't sure where she had lost sight of him along the way. Her brother was gone, replaced by a monster wearing his empty shell. So she wasn't sad, when it finally happened. She was nothing but resigned.

They were happy once. She knew that, somewhere deep down. They weren't always at odds. She had had a best friend, a boy she loved and who loved her. Her secret keeper, her protector, her idol. There were pictures to prove it, stories of their joy. Him braiding her hair, her painting his nails, them whispering and giggling and conspiring. Games played, movies watched, fun had.

It was a slow process, his slipping through her hands and the pieces scattering. A call from the school because of an incident with a printer. A temper flair from a toy plane crashing into a wide stream. Self destructive words, harsh things spat about others. Other children started pulling away, leaving him alone. She tried to keep him close, yanking him into her games, discussing books and comics. Letting him know she was still near.

Things only got worse, though. Never better. Their father punished him all the time for “acting out” and misbehaving. She watched as he learned to fight back, arguing until he was out of breath, screaming to be heard. Their mother was no better. Always pacifying, trying to sooth hurts without dealing with the source of the pain.

She didn't understand, but she did her best to help. Sometimes it was talking softly through the door the nights he locked himself away and the sounds of crying went ignored by the adults. Sometimes it would be leaving small gifts for him to find, bought with pocket money while shopping with their mother. His smile became almost exclusively for her.

Middle school was when things began to boil over. Somehow, he was introduced to drugs, and he stopped trying to be anything but high. At first it wasn't so bad. Pot almost seemed to help, mellowing him out more than he had been in a long time. But then his dealer started selling hard stuff. Stuff that made him much more volatile.

And it scared her. Because suddenly he was lashing out at her, screaming every hateful word that came to his mind, threatening so many awful things as he pound on her door. She cried daily for weeks on end, listening to him slam doors and hit walls and yell to a house with her as the only audience.

They sent him away for a while, expecting it to help. Rehab, to try to get him clean. The damage was done, though. Trust was gone, only fear left in its place. Her tongue became sharp, her smiles as rare as his were in that dismal house.

He had built walls without her noticing, and she couldn't find a window. He didn't think she could understand, and he never gave her the chance. She stopped trying to reach him, and he drifted through her life like a poltergeist. Her elder brother had transformed into someone she no longer understood.

The fighting was non-stop. Their parents were constantly screaming, if not at him then at each other. He was at her throat more often than not if words between them were exchanged. For every flaw he pointed out, she would strengthen her armor. For every mistake he saw, she saw one of his that would cost him so much more than hers ever would. She learned to block out the noise at home, to lock herself away the way he did and pretend it didn't hurt.

When he would sneak out at night, she would cover her ears and close her eyes. When he would take off his hoodie and walk with his arms mostly bared, she would turn away from the lines peaking from beneath the cloth near his shoulders. When he started pot again, she treated him as if it was the hard stuff so she was prepared if that started once more.

She watched as the stranger in her brother's place went around like a dead man walking, all warmth replaced by a coldness rooted deep in their hearts.

They found him at a park, a pill bottle swiped from an unlocked medicine cabinet laying nearby. She didn't cry when her mother shared this, unable and unwilling to lie like that to even herself. She wasn't sad, only numb. It was not surprising that it happened, only that it took so long.

She had been calling him home for so long with no response, was it really so shocking she grew tired of talking to herself?

**Author's Note:**

> I have  
> Other things  
> To do  
> W h y . . .
> 
> Not as happy with this as I was yesterday's piece, but definitely more fitting of my general mood. Welp.
> 
> So. After I was done crying over "[Talking To Myself](https://youtu.be/lvs68OKOquM)", I spent several hours just being mad for taking advantage of LP coming to my city so often that by the time I planned to go it was too late. Go to your concerts, children. Don't miss out.
> 
> Stay safe, dears. Until next time, happy reading.


End file.
